For All the Wrong Reasons
by Chantal du Lac
Summary: Seventh year. On a Saturday afternoon, when everyone else has left for Hogsmeade, Ginny contemplates the reasons why she is unfaithful to Harry. Warning: triangle Harry/Ginny/? , angst. One-shot.


This is a trailer for a fic I might write this automn.

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter and everything associated with it. I'm just playing with the most nasty characters. Many thanks to Lisa, who is a wonderful beta.

FOR ALL THE WRONG REASONS

For all the wrong reasons, Ginny lays on her back, the long locks of her fiery hair framing her pale face, her body shamessly exposed, uncounciously begging for one more caress. She is purring like a contented cat, while her eyes never leave the frame of the boy, the man actually, since he will be soon eighteen, who is currently smoking unconcernedly in front of the open window. Outside it is blistering cold, it has been like that all winter long, and they would have expected for the weather to warm up now that they were in March. Ginny would bet that her lover's eyes are unfocused, as he's staring through the open window, his fuming cigarette forgotten. If she were rich, she would pay a million galleons just to have a short insight of his thoughts. Does he even think of her?

Probably not.

What's done, is done and has been done many times. So there is no going back now, is there?

Of course not.

Ginny is the one who has to bear the guilt, to stand the agony of regret, to fight her fear every time she leaves this room and heads back to the Gryffindor tower. These feelings inevitably take over her every time she climbes the stairs to the Tower, every time she has to find an excuse for being late for class, for wandering the corridors at night, for not going to Hogsmeade, like today…

But then again, the most agonizing moment is when she has to face Harry. Innocent, sweet Harry who has not changed a bit, not even since Voldemort fell and the wizarding world came back to life, to breathing normally, to eating, to sleeping, to loving.

Maybe that is the reason why she is unfaithful. Harry is still the same, and their relation has never moved to the next level, like it should have. While the others are preoccupied with living their lives to the fullest after the hopeless war, Harry is still talking about Death Eaters, Dementors or Horcruxes. That is when he talks, because, most of the time, he is quiet, always locked up in his own little universe, building up walls to shield him from the others, Ginny included. He seems oblivious to most things around him, even to his best friends' continuous bickering and to their shameless kisses in the Great Hall.

Kisses.

It is now too cold in the room, and Ginny pulls the silky duvet over her body, resting her head on her arm. The kisses may be the reason why she is here in the first place.  
He knows how to kiss. He knows how to make her toes curl, her legs tremble and her heart beat fast.  
It is not technique; it is a talent she discovered that not many guys of her age possessed. She was with a lot of guys before the war, trying to get Harry out of her head, so she can compare now. None of the others had managed to make her forget Harry before. Perhaps it was only because they were just lost, inexperienced teenagers, just like her.

And now, she could spend days without sparing one thought to the very person she was once trying to forget about; she could spend hours, her mind focused on a feeling, a touch, a whisper, a kiss she had experienced that morning before dawn, in the dark room, surrounded by silencing and locking spells, meant to shield them from curious room mates. She would stare unseeingly at the blackboard, where Slughorn had written the instructions of some unidentified potion, until Luna would nudge her with her elbow to get her attention.

Ginny glances furtively to the subject of all her desires. He has finished his cigarette now, but remains stubbornly in front of the window, though he is wearing only his worn-out jeans. He must be freezing cold, but Ginny knows better that he would rather freeze than to come back to bed. The time for intimacy has passed and now he waits for her to leave quietly, as always.  
Ginny can barely see his profile from where she sits; his eyes are obscured by his fringe, his shoulders are tense and his skin is even paler than usually.

No commitment whatsoever.

That's how it works between them. Each of them can end this state of agony and bliss at any time. Ginny is terrified it might happen sooner or later. Why she is terrified, she has no idea.

They never discuss her relationship with Harry. Harry is her concern and hers only, he made it clear from the first time they shared a stolen intimate moment in a forsaken corridor. He claims he wouldn't care if she broke up with Harry, and he surely wouldn't care about Harry's feelings if he would ever be unlucky enough to find out about them.

Excuses are also Ginny's problem. Like today, when she had pretended to go see Madam Pomfrey saying that she had accidentally swallowed a love potion. It was not entirely false, given her state of mind.

How many times has this passion caused her to lie to her friends, skip classes, pretend that she is still in love with Harry?

Truth be told, Ginny still loves Harry; there is a warm feeling in her heart every time she thinks of him. But it doesn't resemble anything that it used to be last year, when he was Horcrux hunting: the desperation, the anticipation, the fear, the danger…

The war had kept the feeling alive.

Routine has killed them.

Routine and another boy's kiss three months ago.

He closes the window now, as heavy rain has started to fall outside. Ginny is listening to its rippling against the glass; the sound is soothing, as if those tiny drops could wash away her sorrow, her pain, her shame.

He is leaning against the window sill, facing her, and Ginny stares back, her heart sinking.

"Is it time?"

"It's nearly three," he says simply. "They will be back anytime now."

Ginny smiles sinfully and lets the duvet slip off. She loves the way his eyes flight up at the sight of her naked. Of one thing she is sure: the lust she feels for him is reciprocated. Tormenting him is part of her game. She needs to keep his lust alive. She must continue to make him pin for her, the way she pins for him.

For Ginny knows now that she wants more than these stolen moments, this unpleasant secrecy.

While she puts her clothes on, he watches lazily, his expression inscrutable.

When she is done, she is eager to take her leave, because in moments such as these, she feels like crying madly, without reason. Before she reaches the doorknob though, he is right behind her, his arms grabbing her waist and his lips finding hers. _Those perfect lips, which make her own burn, those arms that make her weak._

Ginny gives in, loses herself in the kiss for a moment, then pulls away and runs. She doesn't stop until she is in front of the Fat Lady's portrait. She is panting; her cheeks are red and her lips swollen. She tries to recompose herself. As the portrait swings open, she can see her friends' concerned expressions, and Ginny prepares a reassuring smile for them. She is ready to lie to her friends, again.

As she walks to sit on the couch near Hermione, she is still wondering about the reasons that determine her to act in such a disgraceful, shameless manner.

But, for all the wrong reasons that she might not want to acknowledge, she could just be in love.


End file.
